The High Sheriff of Huntingdon (16 page)

But
his mother was firm in
her
demands, a
n
d
he
w
a
s
to ge
t
the
woods
by
peaceful
m
e
a
n
s
,
with
no
bloodshed. He
was
used
to the
shedding
of
blood, to taking what he
w
a
nt
e
d
.
It
was a
v
i
o
l
e
n
t
time,
and
the
only
way
to
rise
in the
world
wa
s
to play
t
h
e
game. He’d
risen rapidly
in
King
John’s
employ
through his cunning and
daring,
through his ability
to make himself
invaluable to his
lord
and
liege.
He’d been
suitably rewarded.
Huntingdon
w
a
s
one
of
the richest fiefdoms in all of
E
n
g
l
a
n
d
,
and he was
the sheriff, serving under
K
i
n
g
John’s
absent rule, and the
profits and
p
o
w
e
r
that
came to
him were
enormous.

Not
that he was a
man
condemned
to use brute f
o
rc
e
to
achieve
his
ends.
He w
as
equally
adept
at
threats
a
n
d
manipulation. There had
never
been a
t
im
e
when
he
hadn’t
gotten what he wanted, settled
a
score, waged
a
battle, and
won.
He
was
all-powerful, and
he intended
to stay
that
way.

But that flaxen-haired wife
of his was a
definite danger.
He wasn’t
sure
what had made him
kiss
her. Maybe
the
thought that she dared
stand there,
still in her nun’s clothes with
the
ring of Christ
on
her
finger,
not his
.
She looked
at
him
out
of
those cool,
defiant blue eyes,
and
he
wanted
nothing more than
to
take
her. To
show her
that
when
he
cared
to
exert
his power,
s
h
e
’
d
have no chance against
him at
all.

But Lord,
she
was
innocent!
She’d never felt a man’s tongue in her
mouth,
she hadn’t
even
realized
the
almost
painful
arousal she’d
burned
into
his
body, something more overwhelming
than
he’d
felt in months. Perhaps years.
Her
struggles
hadn’t
daunted
him; her acquiescence
had
only made
t
h
e
fire
burn
hotter.
He
wanted
her
with such a
fierce,
angry need
that he didn’t dare touch her.

He knew
what
he
had
to
do. There were
two
choices. Perhaps
three.
He
could
s
e
n
d
her back
to
the convent, out of his
sight, and hope he’d
never
have
to
think of her again. It
would
be the sensible alternative, and
if
Sir Hugh
were fool
enough to try
to take Dunstan Woods back, then
bloodshed
would
inevitable.

Or
he
could keep
her locked away
indefinitely.
He’d
almost forgotten her
in the three days
she’d
been in residence—De
Lancey
had
seen
to
it he’d
never
wanted
for distraction. But
then
he’d seen her, standing like a
pure
white
flame
in the
shadowy
corridor, watching
him
with
those deep, dreamy eyes.

There
was another
choice, the most logical one,
the one
he
most
w
i
s
h
e
d
to
avoid. He deeply distrusted his mother. She
saw
too
much,
knew too much, interfered
too much. But
she
would
know
how
t
o
free him from the
insidious
effect
his
bride was having on
his
senses.

He
had
n
o
intention
of
entering the bridal bed until
he
was
more
in command of himself. He
could
alway
s
rape
her, but he’d
never
had much taste for
the
sport, leaving
it to
people like
his
cousin
a
n
d
his
men-at-arms. He
needed to bed
her, briskly,
efficiently, plant
his
seed
in
h
e
r
cold, unwilling
b
o
d
y
,
and then
leave
her.
He
didn’t want
to
be tempted
to
bring that
body
alive, with his
hands,
his
mouth,
his
tongue.

His mother
could
take
care of
it.
S
h
e had
a
potion
for
everything.
She
w
a
s
adept
at concocting
love
philtres
for
the s
m
i
tt
e
n
men
and
women
whose
l
o
v
e
was
not
returned,
who
d
a
r
e
d
to
find her
hovel
d
e
e
p
in the woods.
Surely she could
produce a spell
or
potion that
had
the opposite effect.